


Only In Dreams

by the-reylo-void (Anysia)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguably Mutual Pining, But Kylo is Hopeless, Character Study, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Kylo's Absurdly Small Bed, Late Night Conversations, Pining, Renperor Needs a Hug, Sharing a Bed, This Doesn't Feel Much Like Victory, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anysia/pseuds/the-reylo-void
Summary: There's a girl in his bed. And she snores.





	Only In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm in the process of assisting with a fundraiser to get my friend a new wheelchair and in doing so am writing prompts for donors over at my Tumblr (the-reylo-void)! This prompt is for mweerden, who requested bed-sharing, a.k.a. my absolute favorite Reylo trope EVER, and I had to put a bit of an introspective, angsty, Kylo-centric spin on it. Please enjoy, and if you'd like to help, you can donate to the fundrasier at <https://www.gofundme.com/a-new-chair-for-interstellaireylo> ♥

“You’re sure you don’t want to assume the Supreme Leader’s quarters, si… uh, Supreme Leader?” **  
**

Kylo scarcely registers the senior officer’s words as he stands at the bridge of the sprawling Destroyer, staring out to the stars, his hands clasped behind his back.

The officer swallows and glances at the datapad in his hand. “Supreme Leader Sn… the official residence contains significant amenities that would befit one of your stature, Lord Ren. By all accounts, it is quite luxurious.”

“Is it now.”

Kylo does not turn, but still the officer pales. “It… has been strongly suggested that for appearances, it would be wise for you to relocate to the Supreme Leader’s quarters. I’m afraid that, according to the ship’s schematics, the dimensions of your current lodgings are far too…”

“Far too _what_.” It’s clipped, ground out, more a dare than a question.

The officer looks helplessly to General Hux where he stands speaking quietly to an aide at a nearby terminal, but the general curls his lip in disgust and ignores him.

“…very well, Supreme Leader Ren. What shall we do with, uh, the other quarters?”

Kylo does not turn from the viewport.

“Burn them,” he says.

* * *

Kylo’s bed is little more than a narrow slab, too small for his frame, too hard to provide an easy night’s sleep.

As if he’d ever truly had one.

He lies on his back, hands clasped across his stomach, eyes open. It’s almost a continuous punishment, in a way. He’s called these dimly-lit Spartan quarters his home ever since the night at Luke’s temple.

_Surely you’re familiar with an ascetic lifestyle, boy, having lived amongst the Jedi for so long,_ Snoke had said, his voice a hollow mockery of a paternal tone, when they’d first met and he’d been assigned here, even as Ben Solo’s eyes still stung with tears and his clothes still smelled of ash and blood.

But now Snoke was dead, by his hand.

It is perhaps the only thing in his life Kylo does not regret.

He closes his eyes as flashes of too-recent memory slip to the forefront of his mind.

Three weeks since Crait.

Since him.

Since _her._

He can count the time he’s slept since then in minutes, fears what images might find him should he surrender to sleep for more than the space of a few breaths.

The Force has been muted, near-silent ever since that day. There are precious few who still feel it.

Luke Skywalker is dead.

His mother is dead.

And Rey…

Whatever bond had lain between them for the space of a few scant, precious days seems to have died with Snoke.

His last faint thread of hope had been cruelly extinguished in those last moments on Crait, when he’d stormed the Rebel base and could not conjure words for the churning torrent of emotions that seemed to be choking him. Two masters, two parents dead. And the girl, the girl who had looked at him with gentleness and compassion, with a feeling beyond him even as he felt it blossom in his own chest…

The bond had granted him a kindness in allowing him one last look at her, a rebuke in watching her leave.

_It was I who bridged your minds._ Snoke’s words, somehow the most hated, the most unforgivable in the wake of years of torment.

It still aches, and Kylo unconsciously curls in on himself, unable to push aside the memory of Rey’s fingertips brushing his, the heartbreak in her voice as she begged him to turn towards her, the resolution in her eyes as she shut him out.

How much can a man lose before he can longer mourn?

His quarters are silent, eerily so, and Kylo stills, seeking the familiar low hum of machinery, the occasional quiet beeps of the system droids confirming the oxygen exchange.

Instead, he hears his own breathing, too loud, becoming far too fast, and a gentle, even snoring.

Kylo opens his eyes slowly, opens one hand to call his lightsaber…

Every cell in his body seems to freeze as he shifts and sees Rey curled up at the end of his bed, hands clutched tightly to her chest, deeply asleep.

_…she snores,_ he thinks, dumbstruck, and it’s an intimate detail that he catches and clings to, files it away to cherish in the future.

The bond is open.

Rey is in his bed.

And she snores.

Kylo shifts carefully towards the edge of the bed — it’s so small, barely contains him, and only the position of his legs allows her any space at all. His heart is racing, and he breathes shallowly as he attempts to move without waking her.

So many feelings are tumbling over in his heart, his mind right now, and he wonders if all of them are his, or if Rey’s sleeping mind leaves her own heart bared to the Force.

Kylo settles his bare feet to the cold durasteel floor before kneeling and turning to be eye-level with her.

Even the sight of her is a balm and a torture all at once. The bond feels fainter somehow, but Rey is still solid, unmistakably _here_. The light is dim, but still Kylo watches her, intent and mesmerized, kneeling before her much as he had in an interrogation room that now seems eons away.

When they must have forged the bond, he realizes, and it’s a warm rush, a soft, sustaining thing.

_Snoke lied about that, too._

But Snoke was dead, and Kylo is alive and so is Rey, and somehow, he feels it with a certainty that sears through bone and marrow.

Whatever his fate is, it lies with hers.

“…Ben?”

Kylo’s heart skips a beat, and he does not move as Rey’s eyes open slowly, her brow furrowing in sleepy confusion.

_Yes,_ he thinks, and it’s still strange how his old name does not ache when she says it.

Rey blinks slowly, uncurling one hand from where it had lain tucked against her chest, and reaches out.

Kylo’s blood runs cold, but he remains still as Rey reaches for him. Her eyes are still clouded with sleep, and doubtless the bond will fade or she will be unable to touch him across the stars.

He cannot bear the thought that she will fully wake and he will watch all tenderness and warmth leave her like a fleeting shadow.

His eyes widen at the feel of soft fingertips just barely grazing the scarred flesh of his cheek.

“It is you,” Rey whispers.

He can’t breathe.

“I thought I’d closed it.”

“…so did I,” Kylo manages, and his voice sounds strangled. His hand is shaking as he raises it to lightly touch her wrist.

Rey closes her eyes again and stretches, her body taking note of freed space and sprawling out more fully across his bunk.

There is a girl in his bed, he thinks, dazed and numb.

She is yawning widely. She is disheveled and unwashed. She smells like engine oil.

She is beautiful.

Kylo inhales on a sharp breath, and he can feel his chin wavering as Rey takes his hand in both of hers and presses it to her cheek. She instinctively turns her face against his palm, seeking his warmth, and sighs, soft and content, as sleep finds her again.

Kylo waits for the space of a hundred heartbeats before he moves, stroking his thumb across her cheekbone, letting his fingertips graze through her hair, trace the shell of her ear.

Every touch, every moment is like a brand to his memory, something indelible to hold and cherish, dearer than anything.

He is Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader of the First Order, and he is a dark, lost, broken thing. He is not fit to love.

But by the Force how deeply he wants to love this girl.

Rey sighs again and nuzzles into his hand.

“Then do it,” she murmurs quietly.

Her eyes open again, meeting his. They are clear, and hold him whole.

Soft words burn on the tip of his tongue, and Kylo aches to speak to her.

But the bond fades.

He is left with his bare hand curled tenderly around an empty space.

Kylo exhales, shaky and uneven, and sits back on his heels, pressing his hand flat to the cold surface of his bed, as if some warmth, some impression of Rey might remain.

After a long moment, he climbs back onto the bed, willing his heartbeat to settle and closing his eyes.

Never in his life has Kylo enjoyed sleep or sought it.

His life has proved it to be little more than a lowering of defenses, a tumult of nightmares, a dark and uncontrollable thing.

Now, he chases it, feels peace and warmth as his breathing deepens and he falls away to the night.

He will face his dreams willingly for the chance he might find Rey there beside him.


End file.
